After that incident England decides, upon learning how quickly America is to accept things as mere accidents, to use such naivety to his advantage. He knows it’s not necessarily the right thing to do, but he’s been worrying about what’s right and what’s wrong for far too many centuries and now he feels he’s earned the opportunity to do what he likes. After all, it’s just America; he probably wouldn’t even care. But one can’t be too careful.
Things become a regular occurrence soon enough- pretending he can’t reach something on a high shelf so he has an excuse for America to lean against his back as he reaches over to fetch whatever it is England’s acting like he needs, tapping their heads together and breathing in America’s scent as they both kneel down to retrieve scattered papers on the floor, accidentally-on-purpose throwing out his arms theatrically as he flopped into his chair and striking America’s behind. (The look on America’s face that time had been priceless, truly).
The best day had been the day Italy, with his usual stupidity, thought it would be a good idea to scrub clean the floors of the meeting hall without telling anyone. England had, naturally, slipped and fell forward, but America had luckily been there to catch him, and for once England was free to rest for a good while against America’s unbearably warm body because he had a legitimate excuse, feigning shock from the fall. He’s sure, as he looks back on that incident now, he hadn’t imagined the hand America had placed against the back of his head, entwining his fingers in England’s hair before noticing what he was doing and pulling that hand away.
One particular night, a night with no moon to speak of and a distinct lack of stars on the regal sky, England wakes from a dream (hot, bothered and shamefully sticky), and all he can remember of it was the look on America’s face as he had torn away England’s clothing, collapsing onto the bed of some imaginary hotel room. Usually, England would have felt utter shame at even imagining ever doing something like that with America, the one he raised when he was a child and quarrels with now he’s an adult. But on that night, England recalls with a smirk, he hadn’t cared at all, simply enjoying swimming through his memories and formulating increasingly filthy fantasies.
He damn well has earned the right to do so, after all. A person can only wait so long before they have to give into their baser urges.
And he highly suspects America knows exactly the hold he has over England because he’s constantly sending off such taunting signals. The way he speaks to England with greetings that can only be read as suggestive- he simply adds fuel to the fire.
Something snaps, as they’re walking away, side by side in silence, from another dull meeting that Italy’s arguing with Germany had completely ruined. England takes one look at the soft, unprovoked smile that has settled on America’s lips and leaps directly forward, hooking his arms around America’s neck and catching the man’s smile with a kiss. He certainly doesn’t imagine the tentative hand America places on his waist, and he’s all too aware of America’s hair brushing across his face.
“Sorry,” England says, close to breathless, pulling away. “I must have tripped up again.”
“S-sure,” America replies, aware that England is lying but choosing to go along with the facade. “No problem.”
Turning his head so that America can’t read his expression, England smirks. That was careless. He’s aware of how quickly he’s lost his usual self-control, and it’s exhilarating. Without bothering to even try and continue his excuses, England turns on his heel and marches away, already making up plans of how to further things.
Things become a regular occurrence soon enough- pretending he can’t reach something on a high shelf so he has an excuse for America to lean against his back as he reaches over to fetch whatever it is England’s acting like he needs, tapping their heads together and breathing in America’s scent as they both kneel down to retrieve scattered papers on the floor, accidentally-on-purpose throwing out his arms theatrically as he flopped into his chair and striking America’s behind. (The look on America’s face that time had been priceless, truly).
The best day had been the day Italy, with his usual stupidity, thought it would be a good idea to scrub clean the floors of the meeting hall without telling anyone. England had, naturally, slipped and fell forward, but America had luckily been there to catch him, and for once England was free to rest for a good while against America’s unbearably warm body because he had a legitimate excuse, feigning shock from the fall. He’s sure, as he looks back on that incident now, he hadn’t imagined the hand America had placed against the back of his head, entwining his fingers in England’s hair before noticing what he was doing and pulling that hand away.
One particular night, a night with no moon to speak of and a distinct lack of stars on the regal sky, England wakes from a dream (hot, bothered and shamefully sticky), and all he can remember of it was the look on America’s face as he had torn away England’s clothing, collapsing onto the bed of some imaginary hotel room. Usually, England would have felt utter shame at even imagining ever doing something like that with America, the one he raised when he was a child and quarrels with now he’s an adult. But on that night, England recalls with a smirk, he hadn’t cared at all, simply enjoying swimming through his memories and formulating increasingly filthy fantasies.
He damn well has earned the right to do so, after all. A person can only wait so long before they have to give into their baser urges.
And he highly suspects America knows exactly the hold he has over England because he’s constantly sending off such taunting signals. The way he speaks to England with greetings that can only be read as suggestive- he simply adds fuel to the fire.
Something snaps, as they’re walking away, side by side in silence, from another dull meeting that Italy’s arguing with Germany had completely ruined. England takes one look at the soft, unprovoked smile that has settled on America’s lips and leaps directly forward, hooking his arms around America’s neck and catching the man’s smile with a kiss. He certainly doesn’t imagine the tentative hand America places on his waist, and he’s all too aware of America’s hair brushing across his face.
“Sorry,” England says, close to breathless, pulling away. “I must have tripped up again.”
“S-sure,” America replies, aware that England is lying but choosing to go along with the facade. “No problem.”
Turning his head so that America can’t read his expression, England smirks. That was careless. He’s aware of how quickly he’s lost his usual self-control, and it’s exhilarating. Without bothering to even try and continue his excuses, England turns on his heel and marches away, already making up plans of how to further things.
Reply
Leave a comment